


Bare Your Teeth (snarling. smiling.)

by screamingarrows



Series: Howls of a Pack [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Gen, but not as much as illyas lbr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:01:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8076286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/pseuds/screamingarrows
Summary: All men are created equal, but werewolves are not men.That’s the first rule Napoleon learns.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wowza this is a long one-- hope you like it!

_We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness._ [Addendum: Lycanthropic beings are not men.]

 -----

It wasn’t always this way; once upon a time, werewolves were considered to be more than humans; they were the supernatural beings that kept everyone in balance. They provided safety and security, their instincts made them good soldiers and their affinity with nature made them great farmers. They integrated seamlessly within the humans. 

It’s unclear when the shift began, unclear of when it started or why. Perhaps the men in charge woke one morning and realized they weren’t really in charge, not when the wolves who protected the towns and villages like guardian angels were around, but almost as if overnight the rules changes. Wolves found themselves caught in the riptide of a quickly changing society; no longer seen as guardian angels but as fairytale monsters, they’re pushed away.

Wolves were raced out of town, hunted for sport, their cubs stolen and raised as pets. They were imprisoned for crimes they didn’t commit with no one willing to stand up for their innocence. The world suddenly became a violently dangerous place.

The only option was to hide. Packs dissolved as they scattered around the country, around the globe.

Hiding in plain sight was easy and for a moment, they were forgotten. They became nothing more than a half remembered story; the monsters in fairytales and nothing more.

Of course, all that changed when the First World War began.

Wolves on all sides of the globe rose up, took a stance for their country. The situation was dire enough they never thought how it would impact others after the war; they weren’t sure there would even be anything left after the war. The world was ending, and they weren’t going to sit idly by.

In the years between the First and Second World War, strict laws were put in place. Wolves were no longer able to hide unseen, unnoticed, and restriction laws sanctioned where wolves were allowed to live, how big a pack could get. Registration acts that were damn near world wide declare all wolves must register their status with their government. “For a census,” they claim and the humans didn’t bat an eye. It wasn’t technically required to inform anyone other than government officials of their status, but registration records are public, and anyone with a suspicion and the right amount of money could go look, and act accordingly.

There were numerous laws designed to protect the humans and not nearly enough to protect the wolves.

Napoleon’s parents came from Ireland at the tail end of World War One. They’re some of the first immigrants registered with the government. Wolves aren’t yet despised enough to forbid them entrance, but allowing packs, no matter how small, was a rare occurrence. A mated pair, pregnant with their first cub and barely understanding English was an anomaly but they didn’t look the gift horse in the mouth when the man at the counter stamped their admittance forms and let them through.

It’s bizarre for them, living in such a small territory after being in wild fields of Ireland, raised to be well known protectors of the land. They never expected to have to leave and now they have nothing and they know no one.

Not four months later, Napoleon’s mother is rushed to the hospital. The pup is stillborn and they’re sent away within twenty-four hours.

Napoleon is the third and final born, but the only one who lived past his first moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay what do yall think of this?


	2. Chapter 2

_1936 (age 7)_

“Napoleon, pay attention,” his mother calls. Her accent is thick, thicker than his ever will be. Her words stumble off her tongue like they wish they could live forever in the back of her throat. He loves her voice, his father’s too; so different than the voices on the radio or from the people in town. Sometimes, at night when he’s supposed to be asleep, they talk so fast their accent makes their words impossible to understand. 

“Napoleon,” his mother says, again. He looks in her direction and sees she has a grin turning her expression playful.

“ _I_ _am_ ,” he insists, cocksure.

His mother hums, tilting her head. “You are?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she says quickly and Napoleon raises his eyebrows, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at her. She knows him too well, because she huffs a laugh out her nose as if she knew what he was going to do. “If you pay such good attention, where’s your father?”

Her question brings the whole purpose of this exercise back into focus. His back straightens and he cocks his head while his eyes dart around the field they’re in. Birds rustle nearby, mice scurry through the long stems of grass and wheat, deer not too far away; there is too much background noise to listen for the heartbeat of his father and he stands to spin in a slow circle. Still straining his ears, he sniffs the air in quick intakes. He can’t see much in the gently swaying wheatgrass and he looks for anything that will get him to higher ground. His eyes roam over his mother, who is watching him with silent encouragement, before falling on a small mole hill. It’s not the best, but it’ll work.

He takes a step towards it, but then freezes when the wind shifts and he catches the faintest scent of his father. In a blink, his eyes change from blue to gold and his ears tingle as they move to a point. His tongue slips into the gap of his milk teeth as he looks around with sharper wolf vision. He can smell his father strongly in this beta shift, but he doesn’t see him. Hesitantly he takes another step for the molehill when suddenly he’s being tackled to the ground. His father, in full shift, pins him to the ground with one massive paw on his chest. Napoleon squirms, trying to dislodge his father, but it’s not until his mother comes and tisks at him that he releases Napoleon. 

“Conall,” she says softly as he shifts, moving to two legs as easy as breathing. She rubs her cheek against his while handing him his pants. Napoleon stands and dusts off his clothes, unamused by the display of affection and lips pursed in annoyance. He can feel the amusement practically radiating off of his father and once his mother comes to them with his father’s clothes, he gets to see the smug expression on his Alpha’s face.

“So, what did you do wrong?” Conall asks as he buttons his pants. His mother wordlessly hands him his shirt and his father doesn’t look away from Napoleon as his slides it over his shoulders.

“As you keep saying,” he starts but stops at the warning looks his parents give him in unison. He pauses to think of the words he wants to say and then thinks of how the kids in his class would say them. “As you keep saying,” he repeats, only this time lacking the subtle accent of his parents. “I don’t pay attention.”

“Hey,” his father placates at the attitude riling Napoleon up. Napoleon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, watching as his mother starts walking away. “That’s why this is just training. You’re a smart boy, you’ll learn.”

Napoleon’s not sure why he even has to do this and he wishes he were brave enough to argue. The one time he had, his father walked him along the edge of their yard, circling through the empty fields and the small patch of woods. “This is ours,” his father had said, a far off look in his eye. “It’s ours now, and it’s our job to protect it.”

Napoleon never asks again, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about this. He doesn’t like failing and while his parents never give him reasons to think so, he feels as though every time he misses spotting his father, he disappoints them.

“Look,” his father says, kneeling on the floor. Napoleon mirrors him and shifts so that the dirt is soft under his knees. His mother is standing a few feet away, far enough not to be able to smell her. She’s standing there, surveying the surroundings. The wind blows her dress around her knees and Napoleon feels a rush of love flood his body. He’s lucky, he thinks, to have such a beautiful mother.

“Do you see how easy it is to spot her?” Napoleon looks to his father before looking back at his mother. She’s an easy target; vulnerable. She looks over them like she can’t see them and in his head, Napoleon identifies how many moves it would take to get to her unnoticed.

“And now, Delaney,” Conall says. His mother hears his words and she crouches so only the top of her head is visible as she looks around. Napoleon straightens his back to see over the grass and meets his mother’s eyes.

“Get low. You make your attacker get high to find you.”

Napoleon looks away to his father and nods seriously. Conall’s lips twitch and the wind is flavored with his amusement.

“Now go,” he says, giving Napoleon’s shoulders a shove. “You have fifteen seconds to hide from _Mamaí_.”

Napoleon takes off as fast as he can.

\-----

He’s not yet eight years old when he masters the full shift. The moon is big and round above him as he runs through the fields surrounding the den. It’s been a long time since the moon has given him trouble and now there’s only the faint twinge of discomfort not unlike a stomach ache that is easily ignored as he climbs trees and pounces on his father’s back, trying to bring him to the ground while avoiding the tickling fingers of his mother.

He jumps away from his father and takes off. The feeling of being chased sends adrenaline racing through his body and he tries to push himself faster, racing for the trees. They aren’t gaining on him, but they’re still too close for him to make it safely into the trees before they grab him and he glances over his shoulder for one second–

–and falls. His foot snags on an uncovered root and he’s diving to the ground. 

Paws, not hands, catch him and a startled bark escapes his mouth as he comes to a stop without falling. He spins, moving too quick and catching the glimpse of a tail on the edge of his vision; his parents are watching him with stunned expressions on their face and a nervous whine builds in his throat before they rush at him, pride and happiness washing over him, filling his lungs and making him feel lightheaded.

His clothes are tight, straining on his new furry form, but not ripped and he waits patiently as his parents untangle him of his clothes, before carefully folding their own and joining him. His coat matches his father’s, midnight black with streaks of brown scattered throughout; his mother is grey and she is nearly as invisible as they are in the night. When they run through their territory, Napoleon imagines they look like nothing more than shadows.

\-----

All men are created equal, but werewolves are not men.

That’s the first rule Napoleon learns. The second is to never tell anyone what he is; both his werewolf lineage and his Irish parentage are to be kept a secret. 

His mother kisses his cheek before he goes to school and whispers these rules to him in reminder. He listens to the radio all evening while his parents talk to each other quietly, so that he might adopt the _All-American Accent_ and forget the way vowels soften and elongate across his tongue. By the time he’s ten, his accent has all but completely faded from his voice.

He finds school is a lot better once he learns how to talk like the other school children.

The better he talks, the more he’s liked.

The older he gets, the less his father is around. Whenever he asks, his mother runs her wrist soothingly along his forehead and kisses his temple in lieu answer.

She serves cabbage and potatoes for dinner and they eat, just the two of them, in silence at the table and Napoleon goes to bed, missing his father and ignoring the way his stomach still aches with hunger.

\-----

Sometimes he wonders if there are any other wolves in town or if they’re the only ones here to protect these lands.

He remembers the way his parents’ scent becomes soaked in fear every time he leaves for school, the way they whisper about secrets before he leaves down the road, and doesn’t bother asking.

\-----

It’s winter and he’s eleven, still small for his age, for his species even, and compared to the other kids, he thinks he’d be the runt if he had siblings. He tells his mother this, one day after he comes home, stepping into the house out of the bitter cold. 

Her heart upticks and her hands hesitate ever so slightly on his back before continuing to help him shed his jacket. 

“I’m sure you’ll grow to be very tall,” she says in reassurance, but her voice trembles and Napoleon doesn’t know why she’s suddenly so sad. The moment his arms are free he spins, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his head into her as he hugs her as tight as he can. She’s quick to hold him, pulling him as close as they can and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

“I love you, _Mamaí_ ,” he says softly. She doesn’t say anything; just continues to hold him. 

This winter is rough on them, more so than any past years as far as Napoleon can remember. His mother manages to get a factory job, a position his father boasts about until she is red in the face. He keeps a steady janitorial job and despite Napoleon’s willingness, his parents refuse to let him work. 

“There’s a time and a place for adult work,” his mother says.

His father is quick to add in, “You’re still a pup and as long as we have food on the table I expect you to focus on your studies.”

Napoleon occupies himself with patrolling their territory when he’s home alone, which happens a lot these days. It comforts him, reassures him that there are no dangers. With both his parents working, sometimes they can afford enough for a full loaf of bread and a packet of meat.

It’s not ideal, but Napoleon finds himself smiling more.

The sun sets early now. It’s dark hours before either one of his parents are home and a chill settles inside that’s nearly impossible to remove. Napoleon bundles himself up before starting the slow walk along their perimeter.

He’s at the end of their land when a pain so sharp it feels like he’s been mauled drops him to his knees.

He feels like he’s drowning. Like every inhale is bringing nothing but sludge into his lungs and he can’t gather enough oxygen to survive. The pain in his chest blossoms outwards, making his arms numb and his legs tingle. He doesn’t even feel the cold of the snow biting into his legs through his pants. In a panic, he’s too hot. He jerks off his coat and sweater so fast he rips through them with hands he hadn’t realized were clawed.

His heart is missing; that has to be it. Someone has shot him and completely taken out his heart.

He scratches deep groves in his chest as he looks for a wound that isn’t there.

Black swarms his vision and he howls, the sound echoing loud in the space around him. Once he starts, he can’t stop and he curls into a ball, howling into his knees as the snow turns his skin bright red, and then deathly pale as he stays where he is.

He smells his mother before he hears her. He has been laying there long enough for his skin to tint blue, despite the higher body temperature wolves have, and his voice is hoarse, near silent howls of pain escaping his lips.

His mother curls around him, her scent filling his lungs and silencing him. She pulls him into her arms and rocks him before standing with him still cuddled to her chest and carrying him to the house. She sets him on the couch and he slumps over, pressing his face into the arm and letting his claws make pin-prick holes in the worn fabric.

Listening to the sounds of his mother moving helps the pain abate enough for him to function. He doesn’t know when he stopped crying, but the tears have dried on his cheeks, making the skin feel tacky when he rubs his palm over his eyes. He pushes himself up and off the couch and moves through their small den to find her. She’s shoving folded dresses into an old suitcase. When she pushes the dresses in, the suitcase smell rushes into the air; it smells stale, but Napoleon can scent something wild and foreign. It’s the suitcase his parents used when coming to America.

“Mom?” he asks. His voice is too soft to hear and he clears his throat before trying again. “Ma?”

She looks over at him while zipping up the dresses she’d just packed. Her eyes are red and puffy and when she reaches for the handle Napoleon can see her hands trembling.

“Go pack, Napoleon. All your clothes and your blankets. Put them in a bag, okay. The nice one your—” her voice cracks and her eyes well with tears. “Your father got you for school.”

He hesitates in her doorway and her eyes flash gold. “Go, Napoleon.”

He hurries to his room and empties out his school bag. He sets his school books on his desk carefully before emptying his closet and stripping his bed. His blanket doesn’t fit in the bag with his clothes and so he folds it up as small as he can and sets it next to his bag.

His mother appears in his doorway, a suitcase in one hand and a bag slung over her shoulder. Seeing her there makes tears well in his eyes again and he sniffles hard.

“Where’s Dad?” he asks and she bites her lip. Her teeth are fangs and they pierce the skin, letting the faint coppery scent of blood fill the room.

“Not now, Napoleon. We have to go.”

She holds the authority in her voice in a way she never has before and Napoleon stands obediently, hand moving to rest on his backpack. She jerks her head and he swings the bag over his shoulder, unwilling to make her tell him again.

His body is trembling all over; his knees knock together and he has to fold his arms over his chest to keep from noticeably shaking. Standing straight and following her out of the house is the hardest act he’s ever had to commit. He stays silent as they walk, moving past the driveway and down the street. They keep walking and he’s not sure if it’s the pain or the cold, but he’s numb.

They walk until the snow has soaked through their shoes, up to the knees of their clothes. His body is exhausted, but he doesn’t know if he’ll even be able to sleep when they finally stop.

Miles pass by; Napoleon wonders if his mother even as a destination in mind. He tries not to think of the way his chest aches, hurts and throbs with every step. Idly he thinks about the neighbors, acres away, and the barn they have. He snuck over there once and only his quick reflexes let him avoid the iron shoes of their horse. He presses his hands to his ribs and imagines this is the pain he would’ve felt had the horse hit him. 

He stumbles; it’s hard to lift his legs through the snow and he lands on the ground. He wraps his arms around his chest with a whimper and then his mother is kneeling beside him, pressing her hand over his face.

“Not much farther,” she promises. She presses her cheek to his, marking him, before standing and guiding him up. He marches after her, matching her stride and walking in the imprints she leaves behind in the snow.

He doesn’t know where they are when his mother finally stops. They’re at a cabin, unmarked by humans or wolves. The door’s unlocked and Napoleon has a passing curiosity on how his mother even knew this existed. He follows her into the living room and perches delicately on the edge of the couch while she settles wood in the fireplace and lights it.

His mother doesn’t move from the crouch in front of the fireplace and Napoleon keeps glancing towards the door, waiting.

“Where’s Dad?” he asks again, voice so soft. He knows. Instinctively he knows; she doesn’t even have to answer. The pull of his Alpha is gone, leaving him to feel like he’s unraveling. He knows his mother would never abandon his father if she could help it.

She ignores him and Napoleon’s heart starts racing. His nose twitches as annoyance and anger warm him in a quick flush.

“ _Where is he?_ ”

He’s never snarled at his mother, not really, and he leans back in surprise when the words rip out of him in a growl. She looks at him with gold eyes shining in the light, but she doesn’t seem angry. Like mildew, sadness creeps up slowly; water damage isn’t noticeable until one day you come home and the scent of rot is strong and seeping into everything you own. That’s what sadness smells like.

“ _Napoleon_ ,” his mother says, voice firm with the command of an Alpha. His mouth parts in surprise and she sags her shoulders in reply, tears welling in her eyes.

“He is gone.”

“How?” he demands, standing and pacing away from her. His mother doesn’t answer and he feels like he’s choking.

“They _know_ ,” he says, voice cracking. It’s not a question and his mother doesn’t answer it. Rage sets his body alight and he turns, grabbing at his own arm with one clawed hand and digging his fingers into the flesh.

“Why do they hate us? We didn’t _do_ anything.” It comes out in a high whine and his mother lurches forward on instinct. He looks over at her and can only make out the blurry shape of her through his tears. _We could_ , he thinks. _We should_.

Her supernatural powers transcend being a wolf; as soon as he thinks those two measly sentences, her face becomes stone and she gets too close to him, breathing hard.

“No, we didn’t. _And we won’t_. Not _ever_ , Napoleon. You will never give someone reason to fear you, understand?” His mother puts her hands on his shoulders and he looks at her with wide helpless eyes. She’s not crying anymore and it feels like her anger, her resolve, settles the shifting ground under his feet.

“I understand,” he answers softly. Her eyes flash red for one moment, here and gone in a blink. She pulls him to her chest and he burrows his face into her neck.

\-----

They cross the country like nomads, mindful of territorial borders and never staying long enough in one place to claim space of their own.

They’re hiding in the Midwest when Napoleon stumbles upon a war recruiter. He’s gotten good at skipping school; after three years of continuous moving, of living hand to mouth, school has lost its appeal. He’s become a skilled pickpocket over the years and it’s a hobby that’s helped put food in their stomachs.

He’s in the action of stealing a fruit when he overhears two men talking one store over. His hand hovers over the oranges, listening as the men get rowdy before entering the building. Napoleon shoves empty hands into his pocket and slowly moves towards the noise. Rowdy men, in the middle of the day, were drunk men and drunk men were easy targets.

He enters the building without hesitation and frowns when he sees men of all classes sitting on benches that cover the floor. He’d assumed this was a bar and noticing his mistake he starts to retreat; until his eye catches the form on a clipboard.

War recruitment.

His mind spins through what that means. He knows soldiers, especially good soldiers, get paid. He doesn’t know the details, of course, but he knows that that possibility is better than what he has right now.

He picks up the clipboard with the caution used for dangerous animals. Looking around, he spots an empty corner and hurries towards it. Settling with his back to the wall and an eye on everything around him, he fills out the form quickly, only hesitating a moment before subtracting four years to his birthdate. He looks around to make sure the men nearby aren’t paying him attention before marking out the box for _Lycanthrope_ hard enough a noticeable groove is in the paper and moves to turn the form in. 

He keeps his shoulders back, hoping it gives him height, and makes sure he exhibits confidence. The man glances up as Napoleon slides the form to him and then does a double-take, a frown forming on his face. He gives Napoleon a hard look and Napoleon forces himself to keep his chin up and smiles. If anything that makes the recruiter more unsettled. He looks down at the form and Napoleon can see he’s skimming it.

“Nice try, kid. How old are you?”

The imprisonment warning just over the soldier’s shoulder is bright against the blandness of the room and Napoleon swallows. He can hear the man’s heartbeat, strong and steady and Napoleon takes comfort in the knowledge the man is calm. 

“I’m 18.”

“Like hell you are,” the man says, moving for the denied stamp. His eyes fall back on the form and his heart rate speeds. His hand hovers over the stamp before returning to pick up the form.

“You’re a Lycan?”

Napoleon bristles at the name, well aware it’s used against wolves like a brand of hatred; referring to them by their scientific nickname brings into stark relief the differences between man and werewolf, but Napoleon is quick to swallow down the anger and nods with a quick, cautious, look around. No one is paying attention to them.

“Yes, sir.”

The man visibly hesitates before grabbing the acceptance stamp. Napoleon jumps with the sound of the stamp hitting the desk; the ink’s wet, shining on the paper fibers when the man hands him back the form.

“Welcome to the war, kid.”

\-----

Napoleon manages to keep it a secret from his mother. He sneaks out his birth certificate, forges the year to prove he was 18 and brings it with him when he shows up for testing to make sure he is indeed a werewolf. He gets his uniform fitted and hides it away from home. He makes sure he spends enough time around bars so that the scent of cigarette smoke smoothers the army’s scent of gunpowder and nervous sweat. 

He never tells his mother, but on the morning of his deployment he hugs her tight, breathes her scent in deeply and tells her he loves her. She leaves for work after running a fond hand through his hair, marking him as hers. Napoleon closes his eyes at the sensation. He waits half an hour before starting on the note explaining what he’s done. After dressing slowly in his uniform, he leaves without a glance behind. 

\-----

Training does nothing to prepare him for the actual battle front. He’s shipped out with a group of wolves he trained with, but once on the ground they’re split up into different packs of the Lycanthrope division. They’re in Europe, but safely in the Allied territory and Napoleon stumbles around as he looks for the assigned tent, moving around grown wolves and humans strong enough to run with them.

It feels like it takes him a long time to find the tent he’d been directed to. Aside from training, Napoleon has never been surrounded by so many werewolves he’s a little overwhelmed and glad they aren’t paying much attention to him. He hesitates outside the tent; the wolves are strong here, their scent stands out from the rest and Napoleon’s heart races at the prospect of entering their den. He licks his lips before steeling his nerves, knowing he’s being ridiculous; this Alpha is expecting him. Straightening his shoulders, he forces his face neutral and marches into the tent.

It’s crowded, is the first thing Napoleon notices. There are three wolves and a human in the back talking amongst themselves and they look up when he enters. The man stands and the wolves mirror him.

“Can I help you?” His voice is deep and strong. It reverberates down in his chest and Napoleon’s tongue runs over his lips again.

“I’m looking for Sergeant Jones?” It comes out as a question and Napoleon feels a flash of embarrassment. The man walks forward, arms resting easily at his side as he approaches.

“You’ve found him. What can I do for you?” His posture is open, but his voice hasn’t wavered from the strong commanding tone. Napoleon’s fingers twitch at the seams of his issued gray shirt before he stills them into fists.

“I’m Napoleon Solo, sir. I’ve been assigned to your pack.”

Jones stares at him and the wolves behind him shift on their feet. Napoleon wishes he could take a step back, wishes his Alpha were there with him.

“ _You’re_ Napoleon Solo?” Jones asks and his voice has a hard edge. Napoleon swallows and his eyes flicker uneasily between the Alpha and wolves in front of him.

“Yes, sir.”

There’s a tense moment before the wolves rush forward as a group and Napoleon takes a step back, hunching his shoulders so he’s closer to the ground if he needs to shift, but the wolves stop to crowd around Jones, speaking all at once.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. This isn’t right.”

“ _Look_ at him, Jones. He’s a _pup_.”

Jones silences them with a look and then steps forward, away from them and towards Napoleon. His hands are open, placating at his side.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. Napoleon straightens slowly and then nods, averting his gaze and staring at the desk in the middle ground. Jones looks behind him at his three betas.

“Give us a moment,” he says. The wolves leave reluctantly, gazing at Napoleon from the corner of their eye as they walk past him.

Jones stays silent for a few moments before his face relaxes and he gestures with his head to the desk.

“Come on, have a seat.”

Napoleon obeys without thought and folds his hands on his lap while Jones leans back in his seat. He’s deliberately casual, Napoleon can see that, but the posturing relaxes him regardless.

“How was the flight in?” he asks.

“Okay. I’ve never flown before,” Napoleon answers and Jones smiles at that.

“I remember my first flight. Scared the daylights outta me.” Napoleon smiles, a nervous thin-lipped thing.

“Where are you from?”

“New York.”

Jones laughs and catches Napoleon off guard. “You don’t say! I think they’re supplying my whole pack from New York; you’re the third I got this year.”

Napoleon doesn’t know what to say in response and the two fall into silence. He feels almost unsettled with the way Jones is scrutinizing him.

“You have a pack back home in New York?”

A sharp pang of homesickness twists in his stomach and he swallows hard. “Yes, sir. My- my mother.”

Jones lets out a soft exhale. “Just you and your mom?”

“Yes, sir.” He misses his father fiercely and that bleeds through in his voice. Jones’ eyes get sad and his face goes soft.

“How old are you, Napoleon?” A knot forms in Napoleon’s throat at the use of his name, the first time he’s heard it since his mother said it last, and he blinks, swallowing hard. He pushes the sudden emotion away; Jones is using the Alpha-tone again and the words weave their way across his skin in a pleasantly distracting way.

“I’m fourteen, sir.”

Jones inhales sharply and lets it out in a heavy huff. “Why are you here?” he asks, suddenly sounding weary. Napoleon licks at his lips and ducks his head. He knows the proper answer is that he wants to help, that it’s his duty as an American to fight for what’s right. Instead, honesty falls from his lips.

“It seemed like the best choice.”

Jones nods at that.

“Okay,” he says simply. “We can work with that.”

\-----

The first thing Napoleon learns about Jones is that he has a tremendous amount of respect for his pack. Jones accepts that Napoleon won’t sever the bond with his mother, accepts that other members of his pack won’t sever their previous Alpha’s bond, and that’s exactly what makes him so likable. Humans get turned around when working with wolves. They act under the misconception a pack works like a dictatorship; Jones knows better. He recognizes that it’s a family alliance and he can’t demand loyalty.

So when Jones issues the Alpha offer, Napoleon doesn’t hesitate to accept it. It’s unsettling; suddenly his pack is comprised of twelve other betas and two Alphas. He feels off balance. The pack bond pulls on him and it’s _exciting_.

Jones is a kind Alpha. He’s human, the first human Alpha Napoleon has ever met, but he’s just as easy to follow as his parents had been. He leads firmly and kindly. It’s a relief deep in his chest when Napoleon realizes how lucky he is.

He writes to his mother, promises he’s safe, and falls asleep surrounded by pack with the solid warmth in his chest from duel-Alpha love.

\-----

Officially all wolves need is a common Alpha to be a pack. Unofficially, it takes much more than that.

Jones’ pack is kept at the camp for a week longer than the other packs and so that territory falls to them. They have free reign of the mess hall, the showers, the small yard to wrestle in.

The extra space reminds Napoleon of home, of the acres he grew up guarding and the patches of neutral land he’d play on when he and his mother traveled across the country. It twists his stomach to think of it. The longer he’s there, the more he aches to be home with his mother.

He eats less and he can’t sleep; he struggles to fall into a beta shift. No matter how hard he tries, the wolf inside stays silent and Napoleon’s teeth stay flat, his nails stay small and soft. Jones is worried; it’s obvious even without their bond and he can feel the worry and annoyance vibrating in the air when he’s around his pack mates. It makes the weight in his stomach heavier, the knot in his chest grow.

At night he lays still on his cot, consciously keeping his body tense and attempting to mimic the breathing patterns of his sleeping pack, but regardless of how tired he is, anxiety eats at him so fiercely he can’t sleep. Carefully, he slides out of bed on the fourth night and goes outside. He hopes seeing the stars, the sliver of silver moon, will help settle his body. He’s moving silently past the barracks and hesitates when he sees Jones’ light on, but decides to continue towards the yard, the possibility of sleep too great to resist.

There are two heartbeats inside Jones’ tent and Napoleon takes a deep breath, scenting the air. The voices inside are tense and Napoleon creeps closer.

“—shouldn’t be here,” a voice says lowly, almost a growl, and Napoleon recognizes it as Michael, the wolf who’d kept the most distance from him.

Jones makes a low noise and despite it being at the wrong register, being human-high instead of the almost silent threat wolves can make, it sets the hairs on Napoleon’s neck standing up.

“Come on,” Michael insists and Napoleon’s heart races in response to Michael’s own rapid heart beat. “He’s too young! He can’t even shift. We can’t take him—”

“He’s ours now,” Jones replies, short and sharp, and Napoleon’s breath freezes in his chest. “He’s here and we have to do whatever it takes to help him. Am I clear?”

Jones’ tone holds no room for argument and Michael whines softly. Napoleon hears the scuffling of Michael’s feet on the floor.

“Yes, sir,” he answers meekly. Jones dismisses him and Napoleon hurries away from Jones’ tent and the wolf rushes out towards the barracks. Napoleon moves downwind and watches as Jones’ shadow moves around. He can smell the various scents of the pack and he can even catch the faint bitter smell of Jones’ worry. He feels guilty about being a burden and causing Jones additional problems and he leaves for the back edge of the yard. He curls in on himself, pulling his legs into his stomach and whining softly into his knees.

He misses his mother.

He misses her so badly he feels ill, but Jones’ fierce possessiveness settles over him like a warm blanket and his eyes drift close in sleep.

\-----

Napoleon wakes with the sun, stretching long and slow while he’s bathed in the morning glow. He gives himself a few minutes to enjoy the peaceful feeling in his chest before he gets up and heads back to the barracks.

The pack is already awake and starting to go about their chores. He receives curious looks, but no one questions him. He sees Michael coming out of the bathrooms and he looks away quickly, anger and guilt rivaling in him as he remembers what he’d overheard last night.

Jones startles his mind clear; he comes up behind him, grabbing his shoulder to spin him.

“Where were you, Solo?” Napoleon tenses at the tone and serious expression on his face. A few wolves look up through their eyelashes, watching without stopping work. Napoleon swallows hard.

“The yard, sir,” his voice comes out shaky and embarrassment burns his ears. He isn’t sure if he’s in trouble and he can’t meet Jones’ eyes. Jones reaches out for Napoleon and runs his wrist along Napoleon’s jaw. Napoleon’s eyes fall half closed before widening in confusion. Jones’ face has morphed into concern and he holds a hand around Napoleon’s wrist, encircling until his thumb and pinky touch, his fingers splayed up his forearm.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice lowered to give the impression of privacy. Napoleon blinks and nods, silent.

“Good.” Jones breaks into a smile and pats his cheek before letting him go. Napoleon feels dazed; he hasn’t been scent marked by anyone but his parents before, and even that was months ago.

It’s the first time, but far from the last. As though Jones’ display of tactile affection sets off a chain reaction, the wolves begin casually touching each other. No longer do they sit rigidly at dinner, elbows knock together at dinner; they relax against each other before bed, mingling their scents so they’re one unit.

By the time they’re given a mission on the frontlines, they’ve slowly learned to become comfortable with each other.

Their new camp is much smaller and if they have specific orders in the first few days, they’re only known to Jones. They spend their days doing patrols, practicing how to run as a pack and communicate through body and scent rather than words.

The more Napoleon works, the less homesick he feels. He feels like he’s slowly waking up; his appetite comes back, he laughs and joins in on conversation. He plays and spars after dinner; he’s starting to feel happy again and whenever he catches Jones looking at him, he looks so _relieved_.

Napoleon likes all his pack mates, but by far he’s connected best with Daniel. Daniel’s in his mid-twenties, married with a kid on the way. He’s protective of Napoleon in a way that no one but Jones is and Napoleon thrives under the guidance Daniel gives him.

Daniel takes Napoleon to the yard after dinner, nearly every night, and teaches him how to fight better. It feels more like a game; Daniel was a bitten werewolf, but he takes to the leadership, the mannerisms, as if he were born this.

Napoleon watches as Daniel makes wide charges at him, backing off and waiting for Napoleon to make a move. There’s a commotion near the dinning hall, Daniel looks towards it, and Napoleon strikes. He tackles him to the ground and struggles to pin him; Daniel slips away and flips them, landing Napoleon heavily on his back. Napoleon snaps his teeth before pushing against Daniel’s chest and wiggling away. A tickle forms behind his nose and he blinks away the urge to sneeze, rubbing a hand over his face and then jerking in surprise at the feel of his canines pressing against his lip.

He looks up sharply and Daniel is grinning wide, half straightened but with his feet positioned so he’d be ready if Napoleon attacked again.

“Atta boy,” Daniel calls out. He’s proud, Napoleon can smell it on him like golden sunlight warming the forest and his chest feels light. He’s never been this proud of the beta shift, of something that came naturally to him since birth. He takes a moment to savor the feeling, flashing his eyes just to prove he can.

Jones is walking by and glances over at them. Napoleon sees the moment Jones recognizes he’s shifted because Jones’ entire body straightens and he beams at them before letting out a soft pseudo howl. Napoleon and Daniel reply playfully and something shifts in Napoleons chest; he feels whole.

\-----

They’re moving again. This time it’s to a more dangerous area; the scent of death and fear permeates everything.

Napoleon’s scared.

They divide the territory runs into designated trails, going out in groups of two to survey their land. The camp is tense when the wolves are gone and they come back to the others pulling them into hugs, rubbing their cheeks together briefly in reassurance.

Slowly, methodically, they’re marched forward, pushing the Axis powers back. Jones grows more serious. Stress radiates off him like a physical presence, but he keeps it all to himself.

Napoleon doesn’t know what to do to help, but he hopes someone will.

\-----

Napoleon hadn’t realized how truly cruel it is to draft wolves, to force them into a pack to fight, until they lose one.

Napoleon has lost an Alpha; he knows the way it feels as though his chest caves in, like the anchor tethering his boat in a storm breaks and he’s lost to an angry sea. But he never had the opportunity to lose a beta.

Daniel’s killed on a surveillance run.

The pack doesn’t need to hear the explosion to know, though they can. An instant before the ground shakes and smoke rises from the east, where Daniel’s trail had been, a surge rattles Napoleon, like he’d been struck by lightning. His vision grows fuzzy and his body becomes numb. It doesn’t hurt, not at first, the hurting comes later when the space Daniel leaves behind is almost a tangible thing.

Napoleon isn’t sure what happened at first and it’s not until he hears the whimpering of his fellow pack mates that his heart starts racing and a whine of his own builds up in his throat.

Jones calls for a strategic retreat, knowing none of them would be fit to fight and the explosion would call forth unwanted attention. Anger steadies Napoleon’s hands as he gathers Daniel’s things and doesn’t allow himself to think; he just loads up his share of Daniel’s things and falls in line behind Jones as they leave.

The hole Daniel leaves behind is large, but it’s not felt so strongly until the first moon flies overhead. They shift to run while Jones prepares to stay behind and hold down the fort. Their formation is off, lopsided. No one dares to run in the space Daniel should’ve been. They don’t play, bark, shout. Napoleon lets out a few sad sounds that stretch across the land, half hoping Daniel will reply, and he’s nudged softly before being shushed. They run in silence. A howl aches in his chest, the mourning cry fighting to get out.

He doesn’t think this is a blessing anymore. He’s never felt so cursed.

\-----

The war ends 14 months later.

The rest of them make it out physically fine. Andrew doesn’t sleep and Michael drinks too much, but they’re all alive and Jones’ excitement fills Napoleon warmly. It’s not until that night when the pack is resting and writing home and drinking quietly in celebration, that he wonders what will happen to them. Jones isn’t around; he’s out meeting with the leaders of other divisions and Napoleon settles into bed, working to keep his body from becoming too jittery until he hears Jones enter the camp.

He peeks his head in, smiles as he looks over them, and then moves to his own tent. Napoleon waits before sneaking out and following him. He knocks lightly on the metal pole and Jones stirs inside before opening his cover.

He welcomes Napoleon in, happy and relaxed in a way he hasn’t been in a long time, and offers him some chocolate. Napoleon takes it with a nervous smile and Jones sits across from him, waiting patiently for Napoleon to start. 

“Excited to go home?” Jones prompts eventually and Napoleon nods quickly. He hasn’t seen his mother in years and he misses her with an unbearable ache. He can’t bring himself to voice his questions though, and the two fall back into silence. Jones scrutinizes him, a little wrinkle creasing his forehead, and Napoleon swallows guiltily for worrying his Alpha needlessly.

“What happens to the pack?” Napoleon asks in a rush. Jones cocks his head.

“We go home,” he says, confusion flooding his scent.

“No,” Napoleon sighs, wishing he hadn’t even bothered. “Never mind, excuse me.” 

He starts to get up, but Jones puts his hand haltingly on Napoleon’s arm.

“ _Hey_ ,” the Alpha-tone raises the hair on his arms and he settles slowly back into his seat. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

“Our bonds, when we leave… will they feel like D—” The name catches in his throat and Jones’ eyes soften.

“No,” Jones says and the promise resonates. “It wont. It’ll be like with your mother. Distant. All you have to do is work a little harder to keep them present, is all. If you want to let them go, they just fade away.”

Sudden relief washes through him. He’s not sure how he’d have survived with suffering through losing all of them.

“Even with you?”

Jones smiles; his eyes look sad, but his scent stays steady, calming.

“It’s harder with Alphas, but it won’t hurt. If you want me gone, Napoleon, I’ll do everything in my power to let you go.”

Napoleon’s heart lurches at the thought and he’s glad Jones still has a hand on him; it’s warm and grounding and he looks down at it as if Jones would take it away.

“That doesn’t have to happen,” he rushes to say, feeling the anxiety rushing though Napoleon. He nods, blinking away sudden moisture from his eyes.

“Thanks,” Napoleon says and then smiles in embarrassment. “I’ll, uh, let you,” he gestures wordlessly and Jones grins.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Napoleon can smell Jones’ amusement as he leaves.

\-----

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jones says, two weeks after the war’s won. Napoleon looks up from breakfast and watches as Jones moves towards them. “I have some news.”

The pack finishes their mouthful and waits with sudden focus for Jones to get closer.

“We’ve been given the opportunity of choosing to stay for cleanup and peace keeping.” The pack stays silent, but Napoleon can feel the sudden tension in the air, the rush of annoyance and fear pulsing through his chest as the pack shifts in their seats.

“A real choice, or an order disguised as a choice?” Mark asks and there’s a murmur of agreement. Jones smiles and runs his fingers over the beige file in his hands.

“A real choice. If you say no, there’s no penalty and you fly out at the end of the week.”

There’s a scoff to Napoleon’s right. “Why the hell would we stay?”

“It’ll be paid.” The pack grumbles and Jones gives them a knowing grin. “Think it over. You have until sundown.”

Napoleon finishes breakfast and listens as his pack mates decide on going home. A lump settles in his chest, but it isn’t until evening that he goes to Jones.

“I knew you’d be a deadline pusher, given the chance.” Jones doesn’t look up from the forms he’s filling out.

“Are you staying?”

“I am.”

Napoleon pauses. “Then I am too.”

\-----

Napoleon keeps up the distanced bonds. It’s comforting to be able to feel their happiness. When he wakes up frightened, there’s someone on the other end sending soothing vibes his way and he’s able to return the favor for them.

He misses his mother and knows she misses him, but he’s almost glad he stayed behind with Jones. He’s able to work and send money home to his mother, all the while exploring the world in a way he didn’t during the war. He learns magic tricks to show the local children scarred by war. He’s shown how cook something other than soup and potatoes. He makes friends. 

A year goes by and Napoleon should have anticipated something was coming.

Jones is shot.

Fear floods through the bonds instantly; he’s dizzy with the emotion and for a moment he’s not sure what’s happening. He thinks, for one blinding moment of confusion, that _he_ was the one shot. He trips over his feet and falls to his knees, catching himself and scrapping up his palms. His breath is heavy in his chest and he pushes to his feet, panting.

Jones.

He has to find Jones.

Acting on blind instinct, Napoleon moves. He stumbles around until he finds a crowd of people; he pushes through and sees Jones, covered in red. He kneels at his side, hands hovering over Jones’ abdomen.

“S-Solo?” Jones asks through a pained gasp. He reaches out and grasps a hand around Napoleon’s wrist, smearing blood and staining his skin.

Napoleon can’t find words; instead he leans in closer and whines low in his throat. Paramedics arrive and crowds around them. Napoleon growls, his hands tightening on Jones’ arm, and the men stop with worried looks. Jones’ breath comes out in a sharp wheeze and Napoleon jerks away, sitting on his butt and watching with an empty expression as the paramedics gather Jones onto a stretcher and carry him away.

He knows he should follow them, but he can’t stop staring at the blood marring the concrete.

\----- 

Jones is fine; he gets an honorable discharge and Napoleon’s left alone. 

He’s sent to another division, but he doesn’t accept the leader as his Alpha; he holds on firmly to his mother and Jones.

\-----

Napoleon’s just shy of 18 when his mother dies. He doesn’t know if she met the same fate as his father or if she was sick. He sinks to his knees, the crushing weight of loss overwhelming him, gutting him. He’s all alone here and it’s unbearable.

When he’s able to breathe again he’s warm. Love and comfort flood the bond and it only makes the ache stronger. Where his mother was a constant, there’s a gapping, festering hole. He wants them, wants _her_ , wants someone to be here. But they  _aren’t_. They were a pack and they  _left_  him. 

He’s suddenly so angry; his body feels too tight, the shift rumbling under his skin. He fists his hands and claws dig into his palms. What is the point of a pack if he just ends up feeling like this?

He ignores them; their probing goes un-responded and he throws all letters he receives away. Anyone he’d want to talk to is dead. 

The bonds get weaker; he can feel their influences waning.

He feels like he’s sinking. 

\-----

With everyday that passes, Napoleon becomes more numb. Everything he does has a purpose and if it doesn’t have a purpose, he doesn’t do it. 

He’s in town; it’s hot August and his army-jacket feels suffocating, so he leaves it behind. In light khaki pants and a white shirt, he’s unnoticeable; which is how he is able to see a shop manager strong handle a customer, who, Napoleon could sense, was another wolf. 

Napoleon keeps an eye on the situation and makes sure it doesn’t escalate. The customer leaves before Napoleon needs to step in. 

Napoleon shakes the manager’s hand before leaving himself, and as he walks back to his station, he plays with the manager’s gold watch in his hand and smiles for the first time in months. 

\-----

He chases that feeling, the lightweight excited feeling he got when he stole the manager’s watch. He sneaks away to the upscale parts of town and gives his score away when he gets back to the rubble. 

It isn’t until he meets a man with an obviously fake name that he thinks of bigger things. 

Napoleon knows the man is distrustful; he can hear the way his heart races with each lie, but Napoleon shows up to the meeting the man talked about and he grins when he sees the men lined up against the rubble, while the rich people from town in nice clothes bet on the pieces. It’s perfect. 

His superior knows he’s up to something, but Napoleon doesn’t worry about it until the captain shouts for him directly. He casts an inconspicuous look around and sees curious glances directed his way. His heart races; he’s sure the wolves in this division can hear it, but he gives them a cocky grin and saunters into the office. The captain smells annoyed, but not angry. This can’t be about what he’s been doing.

“Solo, answer your damn mail,” the man says, exasperated. “I’ve got a William Jones riding my ass wondering what you’re up to. Take care of this.” 

The man holds out a new envelope and shakes it impatiently. 

“I was instructed to give you this personally.” 

Something warm rushes through him and the Alpha-bond he’d been adamantly ignoring twinges in his chest. 

“Yes, sir.” Napoleon says, taking the letter. “Sorry to bother you, sir.” 

He hurries to his bunk and slaps the envelope on his desk. Pacing in a quick back-and-forth, his eyes narrow on his name written in Jones’ cramped script, before grabbing it back up and tearing through the seal. 

He almost wants to throw this one away, like he’d done with all the others. The paper trembles in his hand and Napoleon tightens his grip on it, creasing the edges. He takes a deep, centering breath before letting his eyes skim over the short letter. 

 _Solo, please_ , it starts out.  _You’re worrying me. I don’t know how to help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong. We can help you; don’t push me out. I’m not going to abandon you, Napoleon._

Napoleon exhales heavily and starts his pacing again; heavy boots thumping on the wooden floor rhythmically. This isn’t  _fair_ ; Jones doesn’t have the right to do this anymore. He _left_ and Napoleon has done alright without him. 

He runs a hand through his hair and tugs at the strands, chest rising and falling fast. He licks his lips and wonders if it’s too late to throw it out and pretend he never read it. Eyes darting around the room, ears straining for anyone listening in, he sits heavily on his chair, grabs his pen from the cup on his desk and slides open the top drawer to grab his pad of paper. 

 _Jones_ , he starts, then scratches it out and rewrites,  _Sergeant Jones. With all due respect, sir, I don’t need an Alpha. I am no longer under your command and it is no longer your duty to look after me._ He signs his name and doesn’t hesitate to slide it into an envelope of his own. He delivers it to the mail cart and immediately goes to his post. 

He shifts his weight from side to side as tight, nervous energy consumes him. There’s a buzzing under his skin and he scratches at his arms in a half-hearted attempt it would stop. When he’s able he runs laps around the area he’s patrolling, but that does nothing for the tingly feeling running down his spine and across his ribs.

The mail goes out the following morning. 

It takes a few weeks, but one morning Napoleon wakes in a cold sweat and feels completely alone. 

\-----

Napoleon knows the risks he takes by stealing and selling goods on the black market, he knows exactly what will happen to him if he’s caught, but he can’t bring himself to care enough to stop. Instead, he goes over escape routes in his mind every night before bed until every scenario is flawless.

So, when his captain finally finds out what he’s doing, Napoleon is gone within the hour. 

Government sanctioned wolves are sent after him; he’s just not sure which government. The manhunt for him makes him cautious about selling, but he has no such hesitations about stealing. The rumors surrounding him have made his name common in the mouths of the shady underground and requests, for work or art, find their way to him. 

He’s never been happier. He’s totally free. There are no rules for him; he beds whomever he wishes and vanishes before he can be tied down. All doors are open, or his simply picks the locks; he learns how to walk and talk like he belongs in the highest class. Fine clothes find their way into his possession, sharp colognes that mask his scent and destroy his own nose follows him like an enchanting cloud. He’s living the life of luxury, no one is able to catch him, and if he has to sacrifice the stability of his senses, so be it. 

It all comes to an abrupt standstill when he meets her; Alexandria.

He’s somewhere in Spain when he sees her at a socialite function and he introduces himself in accented Spanish, which she mocks good-naturedly and starts the mutual interest in one another. 

Napoleon had only planned on being there for a few days, but he stuck around longer to spend more time with her. When he catches wind that someone’s been asking around for him, he asks her to go on an adventure with him. She doesn’t hesitate to say yes and then they’re gone.

Alexandria and Napoleon, names destined to rule the world together. They traveled all over Europe and the memories are only tainted by the secrets he keeps from her. He finds they’ve exhausted all the good parts of Europe, and he knows he’s hopelessly in love with her when she kisses him softly and says, “There’s a whole different adventure, only a plane ride away.” And so he goes back to America. They visit the touristy locations, but he just wants to _stop_.

Before her, he never imagined settling down. His future always was running, hiding, sneaking into places he wasn’t supposed to be; now he lies in bed beside her, his wolf satisfied their scents, dull as they are now to him, are mingled into one, and he thinks of a different future— one with a large house full of children, pups, running around, curling up to her every night with a band on his finger, a warm feeling knowing his family, his young pack, is safe.

The thought raises goose bumps on his arms and he sinks lower in bed beside her, kissing the top of her head with a smile and tightening his arms around her as he drifts off to sleep.

\----- 

The years go by quickly with her. First they get an apartment, then they buy a house. He doesn’t stop stealing, but he steals less now that he’s with her. All the flash, the glamor of the high life, it all pales in comparison to her. All the same, he doesn’t want her to ever do without. Whenever she asks, he tells her his money comes from his family. “Old money,” he laughs. “Too stifling for me. I wanted to see the world,” and he winks at her when he says that and she rolls her eyes with a smile of her own. He lets her think he doesn’t get along with his family and that’s why she can’t meet them; each lie he feeds her feels like betrayal, like he’s swallowing a white hot poker.

He wants to tell her; he _will_ tell her. It’s just a matter of finding the right moment. 

\-----

Words come so easily to him except for when it matters. Moments come and go. The truth gets caught in his throat, choking him until a lie slips between his lips and he can only breathe after it’s too late.

\-----

The CIA comes breaking into their home while he’s sleeping. The front door splinters open and fear spikes through him. He jumps to his feet and sniffs the air, but they’re too far away to get a clear scent. He spins to the window and looks out; the place is surrounded. He strains his ears over the sound of heavy boots pounding on the linoleum, listening for Alexandria until his eyes fall to the alarm clock on the nightstand. His heart slows in relief even as the agents move closer and closer to him. Alexandria’s already left for work and if he’s smart, he can keep her out of it completely. 

He smooths out the deep wrinkles in his pants; he’d fallen asleep fully clothed last night and finds himself pleased he won’t be arrested in his pajamas. He looks up as his bedroom door is kicked open and raises his hands in surrender, dropping to he knees as a team of agents flood into the room. Gun powder fills the air and Napoleon frowns slightly as the smell washes away the gentle, ever present scent of Alexandria.

“Napoleon Solo?”

Napoleon smirks in reply and there’s a moment where they pause and then step towards him as a group. He can’t help but feel a little prideful that all this is to get to him. Two agents approach him; one keeps a gun trained on his head and the other jerks his arms behind his back before forcing him to his feet. Secured, two other agents step forward and start to pat him down.

“Napoleon Solo, you’re under arrest.”

One of them reaches their hand down his pockets and pulls out everything in them, tossing the items on the bed while the first agent leads him out.

His wallet, a spare mint, and a little golden ring are left behind.

\-----

“Napoleon Solo.” The man interviewing him says his name almost reverently. Napoleon’s been interviewed by seven different officials and he doesn’t bother to learn any of their names, but makes an effort to appear unfazed. “We used up a lot of resources looking for you.” 

Napoleon smirks, wondering just how much money has been spend hunting him down and how it compares to the amount he’s stolen. 

“And we probably never would have caught you if your girl hadn’t been eager to turn you in.” 

Napoleon’s smirk becomes more pointed, he’s almost baring his teeth. The man’s pulse doesn’t falter and Napoleon’s nostrils flair. This is the first time anyone’s mentioned Alexandria and Napoleon’s not apt to believe them. 

“Where is she?” His voice is low, threatening and the man’s eyes widen, but not, Napoleon notes with a heavy sniff, with fear. He’s amused. 

“Wherever she wants to be.  _She’s_  not the one in trouble, Solo. Once she found out who,  _what_ , you are she was more than happy to give you up.” 

That’s not true, Napoleon thinks. Alexandria loved him. She wouldn’t have done this. 

He refuses to talk after that. Clearly these men are untrustworthy and are skilled liars; he won’t give them anything to work with. 

His ruling is quick and as he scopes out the jail cell that will become his home for the next fifteen years he thinks it could be worse. 

\----

The first few weeks are boring and unbearably lonely. He waits to be told he has a visitor, to see Alexandria and have a chance to explain himself, to find out the truth of his capture. He’d forgive her, if she did turn him in. He’d decided that his first night there. He’d forgive her and when his debt has been repaid he’d be free to marry her and live as he pleases. 

She doesn’t visit and  _that_  betrayal hurts more than he thought it would. 

\-----

When the CIA come by with a bargain, he accepts and he’s out of the prison and in the custody of an agent before the day’s done. 

\-----

The work is dull; he’d taken the job thinking it would be more interesting than prison, but they have him sitting at the desk all day until they’re ready for his expertise. And even then, he rarely ventures further than the city’s edge and never unaccompanied. 

It’s not a secret he’s disliked. He’s hardly better than the criminals he’s forced to find and the agents he works with treat him like it. The area bristles with hostility, strong enough to stink and burn in his nose. It makes him jumpy and he forces himself to relax and smile, to grit his teeth against the things they mumble under their breath and carry on without confrontation. It’s harder than it was as a child; he was a soldier, he fought for this country just as some of they have. He deserves more respect than to ask if he’s had his rabies shot and be forced to tuck his head and smile through it.

So, like he’s done his whole life, he takes matters into his own hands.

It’s not hard to find dirt on the agents he works with; their pungent smell is sharp enough to follow and he tracks them without notice. To their homes, to the bars they haunt. He’s allowed into their offices with a charming grin and a flirtatious wink at the secretary and all their work secrets are his too.

He holds this information close to his chest. The agents tend to travel in groups, acting infuriatingly like prey around a predator, and he’s not interested in spreading rumors; he just wants them to know if they want to talk, he can too.

It’s late when Napoleon finds himself alone in the kitchenette and a single agent walks in. Napoleon tenses but keeps his breathing even to avoid displaying how uncomfortable he is to be trapped. The agent hums unhappily and he takes small comfort in that this wasn’t planned; nearly everyone had gone home for the night and he was surprised to find Napoleon in there. He looks up without moving his head and notices he can see a reflection in the dark window. The agent is leaned against the door jam, body angled like he might back up and leave. Napoleon hopes he does, but makes no move to acknowledge him. His eyes stay on the reflection in the window as he finishes making his dinner.

Not easily cowed, Napoleon grabs his sandwich and sits at the small, round table by the wall. He watches through his lashes as the agent opens the fridge and then slams it shut angrily.

“What, you thought everyone left so you’d eat all our damned food?”  he asks as he spins and glares at Napoleon. “You’re not an agent. If Hughes isn’t giving you your dog kibble, then that’s your problem.” 

His chest is puffing with each heavy breath he takes and Napoleon clenches his teeth and cocks an eyebrow.

“That’s strange,” he says, feigning curiosity. “My paychecks say ‘agent’.”

The man takes a step forward, hands balled at his side, before abruptly stopping. He gives Napoleon a strange look before huffing an unamused laugh.

“They should’ve fit you with a muzzle,” he mutters, turning for the door. Napoleon’s breath catches in his throat and his fingers dig into the bread of his sandwich.

“Rushing off to the wife or the mistress?” Napoleon asks before he’s left the room. He spins on his heels, nostrils flaring, and anger coloring the air, souring it.

“What did you say?”

Napoleon widens his eyes innocently and sits back in his seat. The agent huffs, satisfied at Napoleon’s silence and turns to leave again.

“Tell Angela I said hello,” Napoleon says cheerfully, as if the two were friends. “Or Darleen, whichever you happen upon first.”

The agent doesn’t stop and Napoleon smirks down at his plate.

\-----

He’s uncontrollable; that’s the excuse Director Hughes gives him not two weeks after Napoleon’s encounter with the agent. He’s impossible to work with and the other agents don’t feel comfortable working with him.

Napoleon blinks, staying at attention. He knows he’s done nothing to deem him _uncontrollable_ , but he also knows arguing will only make the situation worse.

“Lucky for you, you caught the attention of our New York office. Agent Sanders,” Hughes says and the office’s side door opens. Napoleon bristles; he hadn’t realized Sanders was even there. “Is here to oversee your transfer.”

Sanders looks Napoleon over and doesn’t even try to make it discreet; the intensity in his gaze makes his skin crawl. He tries to keep his expression blank as Sanders half-circles him like he’s a dog on display. Sanders’ scent, even up close, is dull—unsettlingly neutral.

“Mr. Solo,” he says, finally coming to a stop near Hughes’ desk. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m sorry I can’t say the same about you.” Sanders smiles tightly, but his scent doesn’t change and Napoleon’s heart beats hard in his chest. It’s unnatural.

Sanders keeps eye contact before humming and looking to Hughes sideways. “This one’s got a mouth on him.”

Napoleon narrows his eyes at the faintly excited tone in Sanders’ voice, but he doesn’t say a word.

\-----

Accepting Sanders as Alpha wasn’t a choice. It’s written into his new contract, claiming it will keep him in line, keep him controllable, and the courts agree to the forced connection. It’s the first bond in nearly seven years and his teeth grind at the feeling of Sanders’ pull in his chest. It feels different than before, almost like heartburn, like something greasy is moving around under his skin. Rubbing at his chest in discomfort becomes a tick he breaks himself of the moment he realizes it’s happening.

There are a lot of wolves in the New York office. It’s a surprise, considering the deliberate lack in the Virginia offices and Sanders’ own lack of pack. The knowledge that Napoleon is in a potentially hostile territory with an inexperienced, untrustworthy Alpha keeps him on edge. He’s hyper vigilant and can’t sleep. His paycheck is a lot less here and he finds himself falling back onto the potatoes and bread diet of his childhood out of necessity.

He’s hungry and vulnerable; it makes him agitated.

He’s very clearly lagging, but it takes an obvious screw up before Sanders steps in, grabbing him by the arm and jerking him into his office. Napoleon still can’t get a strong enough scent of anything, not even at their close proximity. He tries not to focus on that, though, as Sanders promises what will happen if Napoleon doesn’t start pulling his weight.

Thoroughly cowed but unwilling to show it, Napoleon keeps himself relaxed as he nods once and waits to be dismissed.

\-----

He’s not being monitored in the living quarters in New York; it’s a complete 180 from his apartment in Virginia, the one on government property, equipped with 24-hour surveillance cameras and an armed guard at the only opening within the fence that surrounds the area.

Either they trust him more, or they know he’s not going to run; he has no one to run for.

That doesn’t stop him from sneaking out, however. Sanders is overly confident his word is law for Napoleon, and he’s sure he’ll feel if he gets in trouble through the bond. Napoleon doesn’t have the energy to correct him and uses Sanders’ inexperience to his advantage.

New York City is truly amazing. He hasn’t been here since before the war and he finds everything’s changed, but is startling familiar. There’s always activity and its land is scarcely claimed; a promise that New York is safe and open to all wolves. There are no clear territory lines, but various packs mark their protection throughout the streets and alleyways. It settles him to his bones to be in a place that offers nothing but asylum. 

Wandering New York City in the early mornings is how he stumbles upon the backgammon game in the basement of a dingy pizza shop.

He wins two grand and sleeps sounder than he has in weeks.

\-----

Napoleon finds ways to slip around Sanders. In truth, it’s not that hard. The man puts too much faith in the Alpha bond and doesn’t give Napoleon nearly enough credit for seeing around it. Gambling puts life back in his eyes, but it’s not until his first theft under Sanders’ control that the bounce is back in his step.

The vase itself isn’t pricey and not worth the risk, but the adrenaline rush is all he needs to awaken that nearly dead part of himself. He uses all the money at the grocery, filling his fridge and freezer and stocking his cabinets full.

He’s unreasonably satisfied with all the food in his possession.

He never learned to cook, and the bland food of his childhood and army quickly becomes boring when he doesn’t _have_ to live like this.

He spends his next paycheck on a cookbook.

\-----

He’s so proud of himself. A tragic flaw, but every time a dish turns out the way it looks in the pictures, he can’t help but to be proud. He wishes he had a pack to share it with and then quickly shoves that thought away. He’s got a long time here; a long time alone. There’s no use pinning over something he doesn’t need.

He hasn’t quite mastered portion control and brings in the leftovers for lunch. Sanders usually spends the day watching him closely, and so he doesn’t notice the extra attention Sanders gives him. He spends the day keeping mostly to himself and goes home after wishing a few of the friendlier agents a good evening.

Napoleon’s just finishing up the dishes from dinner when there’s a strong, swift knocking on his door. Curious and a little confused, Napoleon dries off his hands as he moves to the door and opens it, tilting his head in surprise when he sees Sanders standing on his doorstep. 

Napoleon lets him in and feels unreasonably self-conscious. It’s the first time his Alpha has been in his home and he wishes he’d known to have time to spruce the place up, regardless of the fact Napoleon doesn’t even want him there. The urge to make his Alpha proud races through him, stronger than he’s ever felt before. He blames this on the fact that he hasn’t been able to read or get approval from Sanders since he’s been transferred. 

“I noticed your lunch today,” Sanders says conversationally as he looks around. Napoleon trails after him. He doesn’t know what response Sanders wants. 

“You know,” he says slowly, toeing open Napoleon’s bedroom door then moving past it to the bathroom. “You aren’t allowed to have visitors without permission.”

Napoleon frowns, annoyed at the reminder of this rule before nodding. 

“I’m aware.” Sanders gives him a blank look, closes the medicine cabinet without looking. He shoulders past Napoleon and into the kitchen. He rummages in the cabinets and makes satisfied hums; the unintentional approval makes Napoleon’s chest warm and he frowns at the feeling. 

“Who’s been doing your shopping, Solo?” 

“I did, sir.”

Sanders opens the fridge and gives Napoleon a smug look. The beta in him preens and hopes his Alpha will be pleased, will be satisfied that Napoleon is in his pack, has proven himself to be useful.

“And I suppose you’re cooking for yourself too?” The tone is mocking and goose bumps race across his body. 

“I am.” Sanders snorts derisively. 

“We don’t pay you enough for all this.” The fridge is closed and Sanders faces him, putting his hands in his pockets, making his chest broader. 

A part of Napoleon wants to mirror in challenge; the other part wants to duck his head at the intimidating posturing. 

“I found a good deal.” He works to keep his voice even. 

Sanders stares him down and shakes his head. 

“Be sure I don’t catch her,” Sanders says, running his eyes over Napoleon, and then, “or him.” 

Napoleon’s heart races and he’s suddenly so thankful Sanders isn’t a wolf and can’t hear him or smell him. Sanders doesn’t wait for a response. He shows himself out and lets the door swing closed behind him.

Napoleon doesn’t bring in lunch again. 

\-----

Knowing Sanders is willing and able to check up on him unannounced pushes Napoleon to do well in the field. He finds the better he does, the less suspicious Sanders has and the easier his life becomes. He’s good at what he does and the agents who didn’t care about him before ask to work with him for the simple reasoning of seeing if the rumors of his success are true. Napoleon has always thrived under attention and if he can’t get it from his Alpha, he’ll get it from his coworkers.

The cockiness he’d adopted on the run returns full force; he dazzles his partners and he can tell their both impressed and envious. It’s a tight rope to walk keeping them all entertained without it turning into hatred, but he grins through it and somehow it works.

When Sanders shows up at his desk with a bottle of pills specially designed to disorient his scent, Napoleon pushes back the unease of taking experimental drugs and smirks when Sanders says, lowly, “Labs made this for our top agents. Enjoy, Solo.”

\-----

A part of Napoleon had hoped that once the werewolves employed with the agency started noticing him, he’d be invited on their moon runs. He hadn’t realized how much he missed running with a pack until he started working in New York and could overhear the other wolves plan to meet before sundown so they can be together, to make a party of the monthly experience. He watches with a longing that burns deep in his chest as they touch and play together, interacting on a level so subconscious it’s practically encoded in them.

He spends the full moons alone, but despite that he still can’t bring himself to be unhappy on these nights. His nose is nearly back to normal and he’s had iron control on himself since he was a child. It’s not what he wishes it could be, but it’s enough. 

\-----

“Hey, did you hear?”

Napoleon looks up from his lunch and raises an eyebrow in wordless question at the junior agent, Collins, standing by the door. Collins steps in and slides into the empty seat across from Napoleon.

“Markie’s back.”

Napoleon finishes chewing the food in his mouth and then swallows, confused. Collins radiates excitement; he’s close enough Napoleon can even pick up the scent of nervousness under the syrupy smell of him.

“Oh? I hadn’t realized you and Agent Claymore were close,” he says in lieu of anything else.

Collins shrugs and Napoleon watches as splotches of pink dot his cheekbones and rush along his neck. “That’s not what I’m… just listen.”

Napoleon widens his eyes in an almost painfully sarcastic attempt at looking attentive.

“He’s back from Russia.” Collins’ voice lowers and despite himself, Napoleon’s curiosity is struck. He glances at the door and leans forward. Collins mimics his action.

“He says they’ve got something that will change the war.”

Napoleon’s eyes dart across Collins face, willing him to hurry. Collins heart upticks and Napoleon thinks it’s more nerves than it is a result of a lie.

“What?” Napoleon asks when it’s clear Collins is going the dramatic route and waiting for his response.

“They- Markie swears they have vampires.”

Napoleon blinks and then leans back as laughter bubbles past his lips.

“They have vampires?” Napoleon asks, voice light with amusement. Collins frowns.

“Listen, he said they didn’t have a scent,” Collins insists. Napoleon settles back in his seat with a smirk.

“There are a lot of ways to adjust a scent.” Sanders does it all the time. And it’s unsettling for sure, but it’s not new.

“He said they didn’t have one.” Collins’ scent turns sharp with annoyance and anger. Napoleon cocks and eyebrow and gives the door another glance.

“Collins, you can’t believe everything a senior agent says.” He stands and wraps the rest of his sandwich up. “Vampires aren’t real.”

\-----

He’s almost free. With a majority of his sentence completed, he feels antsy to be done, but he makes sure he’s not slacking off. If anything, he works harder now. The last thing he needs is Sanders getting wise and throwing him back in prison for the full term.

While he’s grown accustomed to being ignored and receiving neutral acceptance, there’s a bone-deep tiredness in him because of it. He knows, reasonably, that this is all a control tactic from Sanders, that if he’s starved of affection it keeps him eager to please, but rationality can’t settle the emotional urges racing through him. Still, he doubles his efforts to prove that Sanders’ mind games won’t work. He’s play nicely but he won’t be broken.

\-----

“Solo!” Napoleon looks up from the paperwork he’s filling out. Sanders is standing in his office doorway and jerks his head. Napoleon stands, smooths down his suit, and walks into Sanders office.

“Sir?” 

Sanders sits at his desk and gestures for Napoleon to sit in the chairs opposite him. He does, straightening himself in the uncomfortable chair. Sanders tosses a file across the desk and Napoleon grabs it, opens and skims over the files. 

“We have been monitoring a potential target in East Berlin.” 

Napoleon looks up with a severe expression but cocks an eyebrow in question. Sanders doesn’t acknowledge it except to nod, indicate for Napoleon to keep reading. 

“Am I to neutralize them?” Napoleon asks, playing at casual. Sanders knows how much he hates assassin missions. There’s a picture of a petite woman, walking across the street unknown she’s being photographed. He lifts is with one finger and skims over the information on the sheet underneath. He lets it fall back against the papers it’s attached to and looks back up at Sanders.

“No, it’s an extraction.” Napoleon nods. He looks down at the picture again and glances up at Sanders through his lashes. 

“You’ll be working under Agent Jones. It’s his operation, but because of your… status… you will be point.” Napoleon resists the urge to roll his eyes and takes in a deep breath. Amusement sparks in Sanders eyes. 

“You will have a week,” Sanders continues. “To plan and get the girl.” His tone resonates finality and Napoleon nods, standing. He closes the file and tucks it under his arm before falling to a lose stance of attention. Sanders nods and Napoleon moves to leave.

“Solo,” Sanders says, causing Napoleon to pause at the door. “Don’t disappoint me.” The words are enunciated clearly, the threat of what would happen if he fails is unneeded. Napoleon doesn’t say anything and continues to his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: just in case it wasn't super clear, Napoleon lost his sense of smell while he was on the run bc he used really strong colognes to mask his scent which ended up doing damage to his own nose. He can still smell things if it's really strong/close by, but most of the time he's nose-blind. This isn't super crucial in this fic but it will be mentioned throughout and so that's why I put it in and don't want y'all to get confused :)

**Author's Note:**

> And you're finished!! Hope this lived up to expectations!! Tell me what yall think :D
> 
> And again, I based a lot of these werewolves on Teen Wolf, and because if this I'm afraid I might not be explaining all that I need too, so if you have any confusions feel free to ask! 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [find me on tumblr ](http://www.screamingarrows.tumblr.com)


End file.
